Bummer may Hell
by cornwallace
Summary: Excuse me?


_**This one's dedicated to my fanfiction.**_  
_**That's right. You had yours.**_

* * *

I've been shot before. Several times. Once in the head. I was the one who pulled the trigger, that time. I didn't want to, but that's how I got here.

Bright lights rushing past me overhead.  
People in white coats pushing me along on the uncomfortable gurney.  
I'm strapped in.

I can't tell if I'm screaming or not, but they don't seem to be taking any notice of me, so I suppose it doesn't matter either way.

I've taken my fair share of beatings in my life.  
Stitches, casts. Had a couple of close calls.

This isn't your ordinary hospital visit.  
They push the foot of my bed through a set of double western-style swinging doors like you might see in a saloon, or something.  
The bright lights flicker and go out.  
The bed under me shifts as if the wheels have been violently kicked out from under the gurney.

Gravity shifts, but the restraints hold me in place for a moment.

They release me.

I'm drifting in the void. Floating weightlessly.

I feel like dark matter.

I'm pretty sure I'm screaming, but the silence is driving me mad.

* * *

When I wake up, I'm not sure if I'm still dreaming or not. So, I'm not entirely sure if I've woken up at all. Perhaps this is a false awakening.

The surface on which I lay is soft in some places and hard in others.  
Fleshy and furry.  
The torches catch the corners of my eyes.  
Flames licking the stone brick walls. Grey, orange and black are the only colors I can see.  
A screaming shadow falls from the darkness above and lands next to me in the same..

pile  
of  
bodies.

As his screams are cut to silence, my frantic cursing echoes off the walls around me as I awkwardly scramble to distance myself from the carrion.  
Fumbling my own form, I tumble to the bottom of the pile and onto the harshness of the concrete.

Groans echoing from the distance.  
Tortured screams and pleas for help.  
Panting, I pick my hat up off the ground and put it back on my head.

Turn away from the pile of bodies and step forward towards the hallway in front of me, the torches lining the sides seemingly going on forever.

This place speaks to me. It says to go forth.

* * *

"What'll it be?" the bartender asks, wiping a glass down with a dirty piece of cloth.

A bar. How did I get here?  
This place seems like it's a medevil castle themed bar, which is kinda gay, if you ask me, but at least it's dark.

"Scotch and tears," I say, without thinking.

I didn't want that. I wanted a shot of whiskey and a rum and cola. I fucking hate scotch.  
And tears. What?

"Coming right up," he says, setting the glass down in front of me. He pulls out a bottle of scotch without a label and a mason jar with a small white label that reads NACK'S TEARS. He's a fox with red ears and the fur on his face is black. I dunno if it's dyed or painted or he's just some kind of freak of nature. He has bright yellow eyes. His name tag says Swiper. He twists the caps off of both containers, one at a time and simultaneously pours both into the glass, filling it with regret.

"What is this?" I ask.

"Scotch and tears," he says, blinking dumbly at me. "Just as you ordered."

"I didn't order this," I say, shaking my head.

"You most certainly did," he says, his lips stretching across his jagged teeth, forming a twisted grin. "You've been ordering it your entire life. It's finally arrived."

"I didn't MEAN to order this, rather. I don't want it. This is regret in a glass."

"And just what can you do with regret?"

"Can I give it back?"

"No. But you can hold onto it or knock it back. That's you're decision. You've already paid for it."

Eye the glass warily and pick it up.

"What's the price?"

"Depends on what you do with it."

Knock it back and struggle to choke it down. I feel like throwing up, but I will myself not to.  
It's just burp. Not puke. Just burp.  
My intestines twist and turn in protest. I hold on.

"What are you in for?" he asks.

"In for?"

"Yeah, here. What are you in for?"

"Difficult to determine. Very difficult to determine," I say, thumb brushing my neck while my index finger grinds against my chin. "What are YOU in for?"

He just grins. "Do you hate yourself?"

"Who doesn't?" I ask, tapping the glass against the bar.

The bartender refills my drink and I try my damnedest to slam it. Boiled leather diluted with salt water, that's what this tastes like. I spit it back into the glass and fall victim to a coughing fit.

"Don't worry," he says. "Take your time. You get used to it. It gets easier."

"That so?" I ask through teary eyes and a ragged throat. "And just how the fuck do you know?"

"You think you're the only man with regret, Nack?"

"I think you pretend to have answers that you don't have."

"Take your time," he says, tapping the jar of my tears with his index and middle fingers. "There's plenty more where that came from."

"Is there anything else I can mix it with?"

"Tequila."

"Ugh. No thanks. Scotch is fine," I say, sighing and cradling my head.

I just want to go home.

"Home is where the heart is, Nack."

I didn't say that out loud.  
"Did I say that out loud?"

He shakes his head, smiling.

What the fuck is going on, here?

"Where is your heart, Nack?

"Somewhere in my rib cage," I say, looking at him like he's an idiot.

"So it's always with you?"

I swallow my regret with some difficulty. I can feel the buzz kicking in. I can't tell if this feels wonderful or terrible.

"Uh. Yeah, I guess."

"Figuratively or literally, Nack?"

"Literally, jackass. My heart's always with me."

"Where is it figuratively?"

"Nailed to some hooker bat in Station Square named Rouge."

He chuckles and refills my glass.

"What the fuck are you doing here, anyway?" I demand. "Just what in the hell are you?"

"Do you mind if I answer those questions out of order?"

"Be my guest."

"I'm a furfag, Nack," he says.

"Good for you," I say. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"We yiff here, Nack."

"...Fair enough," I say, emptying the tumbler.

He fills my glass again.  
I stare at it.

"So, what's there to do down here, anyway?"

"Wanna yiff?"

"Erm. No, thanks. I'm good."

"You could always try your luck at the roulette table."

"Roulette table, eh? Where's that?"

"The casino," he says, pointing to the door behind me. I know there's a door back there because I turned my head.

"All right," I say, emptying my glass again. He was right. It does get easier. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"You will, Nack," he says, smiling at me with that fucking smile of his. "Trust me. You will.

"What do I owe you?"

"Nothing," his teeth yellow and jagged. "You've been paying for it your entire life."

I see the void in his eyes.

* * *

Hell doesn't play metal.  
Hell plays jazz.

I suppose we all do.

Making my way through the casino, I feel lighter.

There's almost a bounce in my step. Make my way up to the roulette table only to notice that grinning idiot pulling the strings.

Swiper. The dealer. Of fucking course.  
He said I'd see him again. I'm suspecting I'll see him at every turn.

I sit down at the table. A waitress walks by and sets a drink in the coaster in front of me with a gnarled hand.  
"Your drink, sir," she says.

"I didn't order this," I say, but the waitress is gone.

"Of course you did," says Swiper. "You've been ordering it your whole life."

"Scotch and tears," I say.

"Scotch and tears," he repeats.

I take a sip – not drain the tumbler, just a sip.  
It goes down just fine.

"I'd like to buy in," I say.

"You already have," he says, handing me 25 chips.  
Purple.  
My color.

I won't pretend to understand how this world works, but I'll play along. I pick one chip up off the top of the stack and set it down on 17 black.

"If I may, Nack," he says, asking me in his own way if he can say something.

"Go right ahead."

"You can only win back as much as you put in, so to speak. Sure, if this pays off, it'll pay off a little. But think of the odds. How many times do you want to lose by betting on one number? Just how long do you want to spend losing?"

I get it. More strategic bets.

I set eight more chips down on 17 black.  
Five on odd.  
Five on black.  
Five on second 12.

He lets the ball ride and spins it round and round the edge, the table turning in the opposite direction.

A crowd gathers behind me to witness my fate.  
Their shadows looming over the numbers on the table,

The dealer smiles.

"Life is kind of like a roulette table," he says, waving his hand, signifying that there can be no more bets. "You only have control over your bets – your actions. What you put your faith in. Then there is the great hands of fate that spin the ball – spin the table. The rest is entirely chance. Luck, if you believe in it. Odds, really."

The ball clacks against the numbers as my eye follows it.

I swallow my regret.  
One sip at a time.

"We are all the projections of a sleeping, rabid mutant fox names cornwallace, kept locked in a cage by a genderless child with mental powers named ÆdS," he says. "That's pronounced Odds. When the fox awakes, the universe is destroyed. When he goes back to sleep, it is created anew. There is nothing to fear in existence save for existence itself."

The ball slows to a stop and the dealer looks down before looking back up at me, directly in the eye, his twisted grin dripping drool, almost frothing. The void in his eyes getting bigger and more definite.

"Double zero," he says through his jagged, yellow smile, scooping the chips off the table with his rake and dumping them into the hole in the table. "Welcome to the nightmare stages."

Edge.

"Well, you know what they say, right?" I ask, tossing my last chip up unto the air and catching it while standing from my seat. "Bummer may Hell."

"Yes," he replies, the look in his eyes gleefully maddening. "It is a shame to allow this place."

I drink the remaining taste of by bitter, salty regret from the tumbler and set the glass down hard before turning away, parting the onlookers to make my way through the crowd.


End file.
